


Parties and Other Holiday Traditions

by out_there



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Christmas Party, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:56:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8258569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: When it comes to the annual SHIELD Christmas party, Clint knows he has a reputation.  No, that sounds bad.  Clint has a… a really good success rate.





	1. Parties and Other Holiday Traditions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misbegotten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/gifts).



> Written for Misbegotten, who was also kind enough to beta-read it.

Clint has a reputation. When it comes to the annual SHIELD Christmas party, he knows he has a reputation. No, that sounds bad. Clint has a… a really good success rate. ("You're easy," Natasha says, and Clint starts sputtering an objection, but she’s right. He is.)

He’s never left that party alone. Not one year.

No matter what Natasha says, or suggests with a look, it’s more than just being willing. There's skill involved. There's charm. There's getting on with people and not pressuring, and making it very clear that fun will be had without heavy expectations from his side. Sometimes there's been follow-up dates: awkward small-talk over coffee where the only thing you really have in common is work, and then you end up using sugar packets to demonstrate overcoming a ten man team and get kicked out of that Starbucks on 86th.

The follow-ups don't go so well.

But the parties? Clint is great at parties. He smiles, he drinks and he talks to a lot of single people in the height of physical fitness. Stamina and flexibility all around him. And inevitably someone else feels like a good time, and he leaves with company. It's an excellent holiday tradition.

"If you say so," Natasha says, her tone quiet but the mocking loud and clear.

"I'll enjoy the holidays my way, you go ice-skate at Rockefeller Center." Clint shoos her away with both hands until Natasha sashays off, laughing at him. Natasha always sashays in an evening gown, unless she's stabbing someone. But she’s definitely laughing at him.

***

The party's fun. He catches up with people he sees every other week, like Woo and Sitwell, just basic holiday plans and complaining about New York traffic in December. He spends some time talking to Bobbi, who he hasn't seen in months because she's been in Sudan, and Jackson, who he'd swear he hasn't seen since they hooked up at last year's party. There are new agents that he hasn't met before and a few new medical people. Clint’s a friendly guy; he’s happy to introduce himself to the new faces.

And then he spots a face he does know.

"Coulson!" Clint calls out, not that his voice would carry over the music. Coulson's over by the bar. He'd wave, but there's a disco ball and people dancing (because Fury throws one hell of a party). But, hey, Clint could do with another drink. Right after he downs his current whiskey in two large swallows.

Coulson is not dressed for the occasion. Oh, he's wearing an incredible suit. It’s fitted neatly to his shoulders, the kind of suit Coulson wears to be intimidating when dealing with other agencies. But it's a work outfit. He's worn it to the office.

"Big shindig and you couldn't even dress up?" Clint asks, sliding a coke and Southern Comfort across the table. It's syrupy sweet and makes Clint think of cotton candy and cheap soda, but Coulson orders it when he can. And then sips like it's a much harder liquor in his glass.

Coulson takes a sip and doesn't even blink at the taste. Poker face of champions. "This is a nice suit."

"Not saying it's not." Clint waves his hand wide, gesturing at the suit, and almost spilling his whiskey in the process. It was only an almost because he has awesome reflexes, but Coulson's raised eyebrow says he totally saw that last minute save. "But it's office clothes. You wear that to work. That is not a party outfit."

"Since I'm not five years old, I don't have a party outfit. My nephew does."

"Aw, Coulson. Come on, I know you have non-work clothes." Not that Clint's seen him in anything other than suits, tac gear, and sweats in the gym. But surely a guy with six different grey ties (Clint knows, he's counted and named them all. His favorite is Bob, the steel grey with the diagonal silver lines) has some fancy clothes for nights out. "Date clothes, even. You could have worn date clothes."

"That would require stopping work to go home to change," Coulson says evenly, "and then I'd have to wear them back to my office, which would make them office clothes."

"You're on call?"

"Five hour transport delay." At Clint's sympathetic wince, Coulson adds, "It's a returning mission. No difficulties anticipated."

"Still, working at the Christmas party? That sucks. And I just got you a drink."

Coulson raises the glass in question and takes a sip. "I have five hours. Two drinks will be fine."

***

It's six drinks later. Two were Coulson's, four were Clint's. The upside to spending hours training every day is that a high muscle mass means he can drink most guys under the table. As long as they don't work for SHIELD. And aren’t Natasha.

(This is also why the annual Christmas party is worth flying across three continents to attend: the open bar is legendary. Especially when the baby agents challenge Natasha to a drinking contest. It happens every year, and every year she glides away in terrifying heels while poor lil’ agents pass out at the tables.

Of course, no one warns the next group of graduate agents. That would spoil the fun.)

But it's been six drinks, and four and a half hours, and no one's interrupted them. Everyone's off the clock, but it's still weird to spend so many hours with Coulson without someone dropping by for a signature on this form, or confirming the team for that mission, or asking for a Black Hawk. Clint has sat in Coulson's office (or, fine, been forced to sit there until he completed his paperwork, whatever) and heard the requests first-hand: there's always someone stopping by for a quick update, to confirm Coulson's on top of the situation in Hyderabad or to run a mission plan by him. Or to ask for a few grenade launchers. That one happens a lot. 

(Because Coulson will usually approve extra firepower. And while Natasha should take her weapons back to the repository, sometimes they get left in Coulson’s office with the After Action Reports. So sometimes Coulson signs off his approval, and sometimes he reaches under his desk to pass over an Mk47 with a polite request to return it to the repository afterwards.)

Coulson looks like he sits at a desk and does nothing but file things in triplicate, but he's usually aware of a dozen missions currently in progress and can give a rundown on the status of all of them. Clint's hidden in air ducts and heard Hill and Coulson go through the list, spouting mission details in casual shorthand. It’s mind-boggling the amount of information they constantly deal with.

Clint sometimes forgets where he left his keys. And his coffee. And his other shoe.

All that information… it’s why Coulson's never gone after the Assistant Director promotion. And why he seemed so quietly pleased when they had to go radio silent for a ten day mission in Abidjan.

What Clint doesn't understand is, well, why he's the only one talking to Coulson right now. Everyone knows Coulson is one of the smartest guys here. In a room full of deadly agents, Clint could count on one hand who could beat Coulson in a fight. (That list goes Fury, Hill, Natasha, Melinda May, and Clint on a good day. And only if there's some cooperation between the players, and Coulson doesn't get a chance to talk anyone around to his side. So in other words, never gonna happen.)

If Coulson's standing as one of the best agents around wasn't enough, there's the deadpan sense of humour. He’s made Fury chuckle. In front of witnesses. There's the way he looks in a suit, which you'd have to be blind not to notice. There are many, many good reasons to want to hang out with Coulson, and Clint doesn't get why he's the only one at the table.

It's not like they're the only ones in the room with opinions on the best materials for grappling hooks, or the public transport network in Ankara, or the best season of _Dog Cops_. (Which is season four, because the whole Cadet Rascal thing took Clint totally by surprise and possibly made him tear up a little. Coulson thinks it's season two because he likes Lt Bitsy before she made Captain and ended up spending most of her time dealing with the hierarchy, but he's wrong. Season four had a better narrative structure and built to a crescendo that gut-punched the audience. You can't beat that.)

Still, it's six drinks and a few passionate declarations later when Coulson looks at his watch and nods. "I need to go, but that was fun."

"The Christmas party is always fun," Clint replies. "Best party of the year."

"That's what I've heard." Coulson's standing up and buttoning up his jacket, adjusting his cuffs just so.

"You should come back down when you're finished. It'll be going for hours."

Coulson looks at him. Blinks. "I wouldn't want to spoil your holiday tradition," he says warmly. It's lacking the judgment of Natasha's tone but Clint has no doubts about the source of Coulson's intel.

There's no good reason for it to bother him, so Clint shakes it off. "This party will be going until dawn, Coulson. The bar will still be open."

"If I can make it," Coulson promises, and Clint gives a thumbs up and the wide grin of the slightly drunk. "If, Barton."

***

Clint's holiday traditions are awesome. Christmas day is always Chinese food, _Home Alone_ , _The Year Without a Santa Claus_ and _Die Hard_. (And, fine, _Love Actually_.) Christmas Eve is always sneaking into the Rockefeller rink with Natasha at 3am and eventually outrunning security guards. And the night before that is the SHIELD Christmas party.

Who doesn't want to spend the night before Christmas Eve getting naked and sweaty with someone? And sometimes Christmas Eve too. It's a great tradition.

There's no need for Natasha to roll her eyes at him from the other side of the room. He's talking to... Jasmine? Yesmin? Jetmira? Something like that. There's an Albanian accent and long dark hair, and a tiny miniskirt over legs that go all the way to the floor. They're chatting and laughing, but Natasha is rolling her eyes at him.

It's enough to put him off his game. Or at least enough to distract him so he isn't looking when he puts his drink down, and... miscalculates where the table is. He drops the glass in midair.

It plummets. It lands with an audible smash, shattering when it hits. There's a high pitched squeal as whiskey splashes across Maybe-Yesmin's toes.

"Aww, glass, no," Clint says, but it's possibly the table's fault for not being where it should have been. Could-Be-Jasmine's shaking one foot, and talking about needing to wash the strappy stiletto before it stains. Clint doesn't need any special psychic powers to know she won't be coming back this way after her shoes are clean.

"You bring new meaning to the phrase professional decorum," Natasha says, right next to his ear, because she has sneaky ninja skills. Awesomely sneaky ninja skills.

"That's me," Clint agrees sadly. "Widening the range of what SHIELD considers professional. It's a pity. She seemed fun."

Natasha looks unimpressed. "You don't even know her name."

"Jetmira," Clint guesses, and Natasha shakes her head. "Jasmine? Yesmin?"

"Besijana."

"Close," Clint says, shrugging. Then he spots the delicate gold chain of Natasha's wrist watch. He grabs her hand and pulls it closer, squinting at the time. "Don't you think Coulson would have finished by now?"

"The Belgian mission?" Natasha raises an eyebrow and Clint shrugs. He has no idea where they were returning from, but Natasha knows this stuff. "He's probably completing the AAR now."

"But it's the Christmas party!" When Natasha's expression doesn't change in the least, Clint adds, "He shouldn't be missing the Christmas party for paperwork."

"Why don't you go tell him that," Natasha suggests. This time, the eyeroll is completely undeserved.

***

Clint does go see Coulson. The party will go until dawn -- it always does -- so he's got plenty of time to wander up to Coulson's office and drag Coulson back down to the festivities. Maybe to the dance floor.

(There’s a rumour that Coulson can tango. Clint can neither confirm nor deny this, but Melinda swears it's true.)

He grabs a couple of Coronas on his way up.

He finds Coulson sitting behind his desk, typing quickly. Coulson glances up, holds a finger up in the timeless Gimme a Minute gesture, and goes back to typing.

Clint waits. The seconds tick on. He considers juggling the beer bottles in his hand -- he could do it, he once did it with five bottles -- but if spilling drinks becomes a theme tonight, he doesn't want Coulson's office to smell like stale beer. It would ruin the atmosphere of Coulson's quiet, efficient, little office to have it stink like a cheap bar.

But he has successfully juggled bottles before.

And it's only two.

He weighs up the weight of them in his hands as Coulson says, "Don't."

"What?"

"Whatever you're considering," Coulson says evenly, proofreading his screen. "Resist the urge."

"Even if I'm not thinking about anything except, um..." Clint goes blank. He can't think of an example that would meet with Coulson's approval. “Balloons?”

Coulson types in a change, and then saves and locks the screen. Then he looks up. "Are they for me?" he asks, spotting the bottles in Clint's hands.

"One of them." It's a free bar and Clint could offer to get more, but it's the principle of the thing. He’s sharing. He's not a delivery boy.

Coulson gets up, stretching his shoulders and doing the chicken dance with his elbows. He walks around the desk and reaches for a bottle, but his hand kind of... pauses for a moment, fingers on Clint's.

Clint watches. Coulson's hand is warm and dry, and over his, and still there. Like, still right there. Hand over Clint's. Coulson's not pulling away.

And Clint isn't either.

He clears his throat. "You done?"

"Yes," Coulson says. Then he slides his hand down and takes hold of the bottle. Clint nearly doesn't let go.

"Nothing else to do tonight?" Clint asks, which is pretty much the meaning of 'done' so he already knows the answer. But talking is something people do, and Clint's a person, and Coulson's a person, so talking should probably happen. Between people. Who are both single.

At the Christmas party. (Or just upstairs from it. Still counts.)

"I could think of a few things." 

... he's flirting. Phil Coulson is flirting with him.

Coulson rests the bottle top against the edge of the desk, and with a sharp twist of his forearm, the cap comes off. He holds a hand out for Clint’s bottle and does the same trick, smirking when he hands it back.

It's a Christmas party miracle. (The flirting, not the beer bottle opening. That’s pretty cool but it’s the flirting that’s blowing Clint’s mind right now.)

Not that, you know, Clint's hideously disfigured. Or dumb as a box of rocks. Or obnoxiously arrogant or a hundred other things that would make him unappealing to others. But there is a world of difference between knowing he's hot enough to catch someone’s interest and having Phil Coulson's undivided attention. 

Coulson’s all sharp eyes and confident little smile as he raises the bottle to his lips. He keeps watching Clint as he swallows.

Flirting. Best kind of flirting: just a little filthy.

"Really?" Clint hears himself ask. (Aww, mouth.) It's not the smoothest response, he knows. On the peanut butter scale of smoothness, it’s definitely chunky. "I mean, yes. Hell, yes."

Coulson nods like a mission just went to plan. "Okay, then."

Part of Clint can't believe this is happening, but the rest of him knows that when an opportunity comes, it's always worth leaping. You've gotta go for it, even if you end up have to do some midair twisting to avoid breaking bones on the way down. "So... my place?"

"No," Coulson says, tipping the bottle back and swallowing again.

Fine. Bed-Stuy's a little further out than Coulson's place, Clint gets that. "Yours?"

"No."

Just as Clint's starting to wonder if he completely misread the situation -- and he's not even sure how he could have, not really -- Coulson steps closer. He steps right into Clint's personal space, keeps hold of the beer in one hand, and slides the other behind Clint's neck to pull him in for a kiss. It's a good kiss, soft and welcoming and confident. Hot, despite the fact Clint still has both hands around his beer, trapped weirdly between them.

It's something Clint wants to do a second time. So he does.

And then there’s a third. 

Then Coulson pulls back and Clint hears himself make a pathetic little whine. It’s embarrassing. "I'm not going home with you," Coulson says gently.

"Huh." And then, "Huh?"

Clint might not be thinking clearly. He blames the kissing. Or Coulson. He might blame Coulson.

Coulson's standing there in a nice suit, beer bottle dangling loosely between his fingers, saying, "Natasha told me about your fondness for one night stands at Christmas."

Or Natasha. He blames Natasha. "It's a tradition. A party tradition," Clint babbles earnestly. "Everyone has fun and it's not..."

"Not?"

Clint sighs. He can't argue against Coulson's point when he doesn't know what Coulson's point even is. He shrugs.

"I'm not judging." And that's the thing about Coulson. In an agency full of killers and stone cold badasses, there is this warm kindness to Coulson that shows when you know him. When he's in the field, he's all business but in the quiet of SHIELD HQ, he's gentle and kind. He listens and he cares. "But I don't want to be part of a tradition that ends the next morning."

It's a good thing that Clint has a bottle in his hands. It gives him something to do and somewhere to look. He takes a deep swallow, and thinks. He twists the bottle in his hands. "What about a different holiday tradition?"

"Hmmm?"

"I usually spend Christmas day watching movies," Clint offers, "or you could help me and Nat skate at Rockefeller Center."

"Help you run away from security guards, you mean?"

Clint grins hopefully. "That too."

"No to the skating," Coulson says firmly. "Yes to the films."

***

Coulson doesn’t go home with Clint. But he does kiss Clint again, and they end up making out like teens at the start of a horror film. It’s great.

It’s even better when Coulson sets the bottles down on his desk, and then pins Clint against the wall. Clint likes everything about it. He likes the warm, solid press of Coulson’s body. He likes the softs lips against his, the very talented tongue, the occasional sharp nip of teeth. He really likes Coulson’s restless hands. Fingernails scraping low on his scalp. Palms sliding down each vertebrae. Fingers dragging across his shoulder blades, his sides, his abs.

“You know, we could…” Clint suggests.

“I’m not sleeping with you tonight,” Coulson says, with two hands above Clint’s waist, but only just above.

“These are some very mixed messages.”

“Did you want to stop? Go back to the party?”

“Hell, no.”

***

When they finally do get back to the party, Natasha just smirks like the psychic ninja wonder that she is.

Clint’s a little rumpled. Okay, his suit looks like he got thrown out of a car and passed out in it. (He knows what that does to a suit. A nice suit, even.) His shirt’s untucked and the top buttons are undone. His hair has gone a bit crazy but he’s pretty sure there aren’t any other incriminating marks.

Coulson, on the other hand, looks office ready. His tie’s straight, his shirt is tucked in and his jacket hangs neatly from his shoulders. His only tell is in the creases around his eyes and the hint of a smile, the way he looks very pleased with life in general.

Clint thinks it’s a good look on him.


	2. Epilogue

Clint doesn’t fall flat on his face hobbling to the door, but it’s a near thing. He has crutches but they’re on the other side of the room, and someone’s knocking again. Who knocks on Christmas Day? Impatient visitors, that’s who.

Or Coulson. Hopefully Coulson.

“Hold up, I’m coming,” he mutters, hopping those last two steps and opening the door.

It’s Coulson. Coulson in a soft-looking navy sweater and jeans, standing at parade rest.

“Aha!” Clint says. “I knew you had not-work clothes.”

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Coulson replies. His gazes slides down Clint’s body. It’s very flattering until he notices Clint’s bandaged ankle. It’s hard not to notice. The neon pink bandage makes sure of that. “What happened?”

“Security guard. Fence. Shoelace,” Clint recites sadly, leaning against the door. He waves Coulson inside.

“You caught your shoelace on something while scaling a fence to escape the guard?” Coulson tries. “I assume this was three a.m. this morning at the Rockefeller Center.”

“Four-ish. I had the skates over my shoulder, tied by the laces. They caught on the barbed wire as I jumped off the fence.” Clint demonstrates the trajectory with one hand: smooth motion up, and an awkward tumble down. “Just a bad sprain.”

“And now you have another pair of crutches for your collection,” Coulson says, keeping one hand behind his back. It’s a little unfair. Clint doesn’t have a collection. It’s not like he keeps all of the crutches that he gets given. “Anyway, Merry Christmas.”

Coulson produces a perfectly wrapped present from behind his back. It’s the size of a thick book, every edge of the dark green wrapping paper neatly folded, corners perfectly square. It’s criss-crossed with shiny red ribbon -- red with purple polkadots! -- which meets in a perfectly symmetrical bow. It’s a thing of precision and beauty.

“I have no tape,” Clint says, and Coulson looks confused. “I have a present for you but I have no tape. The wrapping… didn’t happen.”

“Understandable. Allowances can be made for current mobility issues.”

Clint doesn’t point out that he’s had the present for eight months now. He bought it for Coulson’s birthday, a few months early. Then he forgot he bought it. So he went halves when Natasha suggested a restaurant voucher for Coulson’s birthday. He figured it could wait until Christmas, but he… forgot to buy tape.

A lot of the time he’s in foreign countries doing really dangerous things. Sometimes the little stuff gets away from him.

Like where he put it.

Oh! “It’s in the pot cupboard, beside the stove.”

“Sit down,” Coulson says. “I’ll get it.”

Hopping looks less dignified, but it’s a lot faster. So he hops back to the couch and props his foot up on the coffee table. On the TV screen, Macauley Culkin is paused in a very red sweater.

Coulson returns with the epitome of holiday gift-wrapping and a small, scrunched, brown paper bag. Clint should have bought tape. Or one of those little gift bag things.

Coulson doesn’t seem worried by it. He just opens up the bag and pulls out the grey tie. It’s dove grey, a little paler than the ties Coulson already has, with a faint geometric pattern in silver thread. Clint’s been thinking of it as Martino, because he picked it up from a little shopfront in Santa Margherita.

“It’s silk,” Clint offers.

“Yes.” Coulson sounds a little distracted, but he runs a thumb over the material and asks, “Italian?”

“Got it in Italy, so hopefully.” Clint shrugs. “Could be made in China for all I know.”

“Thank you.” Coulson says it like it’s much better than an impulse buy, something that caught Clint’s eye while maintaining a cover. Coulson says it like he’d be putting it on right now if he was wearing a collared shirt.

Clint grabs at his own present before he says something dumb. The bow unfolds, melting like ice on a hot day, and he rips into the paper. Beneath it lies seasons one to four of _Dog Cops _. All shiny and new and still shrink-wrapped.__

__Clint tears the shrink wrapping off. “Best. Present. Ever.”_ _

__Coulson smiles. “I thought you might need to watch season two again.”_ _

__The only thing that makes Christmas even better is Coulson leaning down for a fond kiss, and then sitting beside him on the couch._ _


End file.
